It is different at night

It is different at night

Even the silence is louder,

More subtle in its

Breadth and scope.

Every absence amplified,

Seeping by degrees

Through tired window frames,

Which rattle to and fro.

A lonely staccato,

Each singular gust of wind

Lifting the curtain

To reveal a capodimonte

Stranger,

Dancing by moonlight

On the window sill,

Wallflower eyes

Searching for you.

Only as dark falls

Do secret shadows

Play across your mind.

Sharply feathered pillows

Hollowed by old memories

Weep with fevered dreams.

Pushing without giving.

A mattress full of stories

Is a closed book

Packed with uncomfortable endings.

Jagged peaks,

Tightly fitting troughs,

Made to measure coffins,

With two pennies

On the bedside cabinet

Waiting for

Rheumy eyes to close.

Some nights you fail

To stay the agitation.

And tread the boards

On brittle toes.

Ice cold feet pacing the floor,

A cage of xylophone ribs

Tightly wrapped

In goose-flesh arms,

Holding the night at bay.

As if that old thief

Would steal your heart

Right out,

From under your runny nose.